


Galatea

by Sinna



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, excessive use of extended metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a sculptor. Enjolras has never seen his rough hands touch a chisel or a mallet, but he is a sculptor nonetheless. Sometimes, Enjolras can feel those hands tracing his stone ideals, taking out a bit here, wearing down a rough curve until it’s smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galatea

Grantaire is a sculptor. Enjolras has never seen his rough hands touch a chisel or a mallet, but he is a sculptor nonetheless. Sometimes, Enjolras can feel those hands tracing his stone ideals, taking out a bit here, wearing down a rough curve until it’s smooth. Grantaire is a sculptor and he doesn’t know it.

When all this began, Enjolras was a column. Tall, strong, and completely immovable. He might have remained that way but for Grantaire, who chipped away at him until the architecture was more Corinthian than Doric. Some nights, his touch was gentle, a fingertip smoothing an edge just a fraction. Sometimes the hammer opened ugly wounds that rent the column from top to bottom. Those were the nights when Enjolras almost threw the drunk out of the café. In the end, he could never quite make himself do it. Grantaire was an artist, and artists had strange methods. There was something trapped in the marble that was Enjolras, and Grantaire seemed to be the only one capable of finding it.

Eventually, Enjolras realized he wasn’t a column anymore. Within the marble, Grantaire had found the shape of a man, and now he sought to define it. The hammer disappeared as Grantaire focused on the details, defining a stone curl here and shaping the curve of a wrist there.

“You would be good at sculpting,” Enjolras remarks one night, when they’re the only two left in the café.

It’s late, and everyone else left hours ago. Grantaire is seated at the small table in the corner, and Enjolras is standing just behind him, looking over his shoulder into his sketchbook.

“I’m barely decent with a pencil,” Grantaire replies with a bitter laugh, turning in his chair to face Enjolras directly.

He hasn’t been sculpting lately, and Enjolras is beginning to think the statue is done. It’s disappointing, really. He thought…

Well, he thought that it wouldn’t be so anticlimactic. Not that he should care so much about the metaphorical statue Grantaire has been carving him into.

“The technical aspects are very good,” Enjolras tells him, indicating the book on the table. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t translate to stonework.”

He really can’t comment on the subject matter, sensual men and women engaged in frankly scandalous acts more often than not.

“Technical aspects?” Grantaire scoffs, fist clenching around the neck of the nearest bottle. “Do you even hear yourself? Art isn’t about technical aspects. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even human, Apollo.”

Oh. There it is.

One final sliver is chipped away, and it’s done.

Their eyes are too wide when they meet. Grantaire looks afraid, and Enjolras can’t deny his own fear. Something’s changed, and neither of them dare move.

Grantaire’s hand is shaking as he reaches out to cup Enjolras’ cheek. His touch is too warm, and Enjolras can feel life pulsing within his veins. He pulls Grantaire to his feet by his waistcoat, until they’re standing only a few inches apart.

“Touch me,” Enjolras says in a low voice, still not entirely sure what he’s doing. Grantaire obeys, his hands flitting over Enjolras’ body, occasionally ducking below layers of clothing, layers that Enjolras wants gone. Everywhere he touches, marble transforms into flesh. He’s Pygmalion and Aphrodite all in one, and Enjolras doesn’t mind being his Galatea. The pounding of their two heartbeats almost seems to echo in the too-quiet room.

Grantaire’s hands have until now been their only point of contact, but, sensing some unheard signal, Grantaire dips his head to capture Enjolras’ lips with his own. Enjolras leans into the kiss, breathing in life through stone lips. Grantaire tastes of absinthe, and Enjolras, who has always disdained drink, finds himself licking the taste from the deepest corners of Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire gives as good as he gets, and he reaches up to tug at the ribbon holding back Enjolras’ golden hair. The black silk flutters to the ground, and the curls, no longer carved marble, fall gently about his shoulders. Grantaire tangles his hands in them and tugs gently, convincing Enjolras to let him part their mouths as he kisses his way down to the curve of Enjolras’ neck.

“Maybe this will convince you to wear a cravat,” Grantaire whispers as he bites down, and he’s right. There’s no way Enjolras will be able to hide the mark without one. He can’t really bring himself to care at the moment though, because Grantaire’s hands are at the waistband of his trousers.

The cynic drops to his knees, and Enjolras isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe. Wordlessly, Grantaire looks up, waiting for something. It takes a moment before Enjolras realizes that something is his permission.

“Yes,” he breathes, and the sound of his own voice is different, now that his lungs are no longer marble, not with the last traces of Grantaire’s breath still clinging to them. 

And then Grantaire’s mouth is hot around his cock, and words are hard to come by. Enjolras tangles his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, desperately seeking some sort of anchor as Grantaire’s clever tongue puts itself to a new use and- _oh!_ He has to have done this before. A spark of jealousy causes Enjolras’ fingers to tighten in Grantaire’s hair as he wonders if this man has ever sculpted another person as he’d sculpted him.

Grantaire’s hands are clenched around Enjolras’ hips, holding him still, and Enjolras thinks, with what small part of his mind that still works, that there will be bruises there tomorrow. He doesn’t particularly mind. Grantaire’s mouth is driving him to insanity. A soft sound escapes his throat, as his captured hips strain to thrust forward. He can feel Grantaire smiling around him at that. Almost maliciously, he twists his fingers sharply in the cynic’s hair. The smile fades and Grantaire moans, the vibrations driving any sense of coherency from Enjolras’ mind.

“Grantaire. _Grantaire, please_.”

He murmurs the name like a prayer, and Grantaire responds by taking him deeper, swallowing him down until the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him.

“ _Grantaire._ ”

The cynic continues his slow torture, until finally Enjolras sees white, and feels nothing but human. Grantaire swallows his release and pulls his mouth away. His hands let go of Enjolras’ hips, and Enjolras falls to his knees.

Grantaire won’t meet his eyes, and a kind of dread fills Enjolras. Grantaire had loved the marble. It’s obvious now. But what about the man?

“I-”

“Don’t say anything,” Grantaire begs. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks. “I don’t regret it.”

“Lucifer shouldn’t fall by my hands.”

And then he’s gone, running for the door and out it in a moment. Enjolras is left staring after him and unsure whether to laugh or cry.

No wonder Grantaire thinks so poorly of his own art. He brought a statue to life, and he mistakes his accomplishment for defiling an angel.

Still, perhaps it’s better this way, Enjolras thinks as he feels his fast-beating heart fade back into stone. Only a statue can lead this revolution.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first time writing smut. I'm probably doing everything all wrong, but hopefully I get points for trying. I have developed a healthy sense of respect for people who write stuff like this every day.
> 
> I actually intended to write something much more PG rated and abstract and with a less depressing ending, but then stuff happened and there was no way to take it anywhere else.


End file.
